


Lie-Ins

by AJ_Lenoire



Series: Avengers Fan Fiction Collection [11]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Boxers, F/M, Fluff, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 19:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4192026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Lenoire/pseuds/AJ_Lenoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lazy morning after the battle of Sovokia, after James "Bucky" Barnes let himself be found by Steve Rogers, after he regained his memories and rekindled his relationship with Natalia Romanova - now Natasha Romanoff, but still the Black Widow, Bucky reflects on all that has happened as he enjoys a lie-in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lie-Ins

Since Sam had tracked him down (shortly after Sovokia had nearly destroyed the planet) Bucky had been integrated into the Avengers as one of their new recruits (or, as Tony would put it _Avengers two-point-oh_ ). Tony was on-call as a consultant, Thor had returned to Asgard, Banner was off being solitary, and Clint was taking some family time. Steve was still the Avengers' leader, but now his second in command was Natasha.

Or, as she would always be in Bucky’s mind, _Natalia_. He has no doubt that she will be a perfect second-in-command, and he knows that Steve knows it, too.

Some of Tony’s miracle technology had undone the effects of his many mind-wipes and given him back the vast majority of his memories. Though he still had gaps, he remembered being Steve’s Bucky and Natalia’s James, and all three had been surprised to note that they hadn’t been all that different. But of course, they had been the same man at their core. He would never be entirely the same, but what could one expect after enduring such awful torture for so long? It didn't matter, though; he was still Bucky and still James. They still loved him, and he them. Now, at least, he was free to admit it. Free to feel and make choices and have a mind. Free to be more than a tool; a bullet or a scalpel wielded by corrupt surgeons, guided by the pockets of diplomats and terrorists. Free to be a person again.

On this particular day, Steve was off Avenger-ing with Sam, so he was halfway around the world. Natalia had grown close to Wanda over a mutual understanding of what it was like to lose part of yourself and the fact that just because they were women didn’t mean they were weak; but Wanda lived in another building about three blocks from Natalia – who, incidentally, was neighbours with (ish, two floors above) Steve. And Clint, her very best friend, was off having some quality time on his farm. Tony was drawing up plans for an Avengers facility, but had been busy with his own thing for a time, and it was only halfway to completion; an ideal training ground, but not a home. Not yet, at least.

In short, today he had Natalia all to himself.

Strictly speaking, of course, he lived with Steve, but no one minded in the least when he snuck up the fire escape and tried (always tried, never succeeded) to break into Natalia’s apartment. He may have trained her, but she joked that he was an old man (though she had been born in ’50, so was hardly a spring chicken, even if she looked one, and was only 30 years younger than him), and was better than him by this point, having honed her skills over the past decades, after mind-wipes and tasting freedom had torn them apart. Her security was always better than his lock-picking skills.

But now he doesn’t need to. He knows Natalia loves when he tried to break in, but it often leads to his having to leave in case the police are called (he still didn’t like people as much as he had in ’45). So she had given him a key. He used it now, entering her apartment silently and locking the door behind him. It is late in the morning – to him, at least – nine-thirty, and Natalia is nowhere to be found.

But he knows she’s here, because some part of him can always tell. Maybe it is because he carries half her heart with him, always, that he has done since she was eighteen – back in ’67. Maybe it is because she carries his heart, also, and this bond has linked them as though they shared a soul; a single mind and heart forged in the fire and terror of the Red Room, their crucible from which they emerged, as one. And maybe it is because he can always hear her breathing more clearly than anyone else’s.

Speaking of which, her breathing is slow and calm, meaning she is relaxed, and most likely asleep. This is strange, though, she often the first to rise of the Avengers, having been trained to rise at 06:00 sharp every day since she was five. He walks through her small living room area, which joins on to a small kitchen, and into her bedroom.

She is sprawled on the bed, on her stomach, asleep. Her red hair is tousled and one arm hangs off the edge of the bed. She is wearing a small black tank-top and a pair of Captain America boxers. She found a set of Avengers boxers in a shop and bought them for laughs, though Bucky noted that she favoured the Hawkeye, Cap and Widow boxers more than the Hulk, Thor and Iron Man ones. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her wear either of them; maybe the Stark ones, once or twice. But he’s pretty sure she threw the Hulk ones out. She's not been forgiving with the details, but he probably knows more than anyone, anyway. He may be out of practice, but he still knows how to read her a lot better than anyone else, and he understands.

Regardless, she wears the boxers as pyjamas. She claims she wears them because they’re comfortable to sleep in. And he supposes they are, especially for a girl, but he reckons a truer reason might be because she knows he finds them very cute on her.

Because she trusts him so much, he knows he’s allowed to do what he does next. He toes off his shoes and socks, he shuffles out of his jeans and removes his t-shirt. Lastly, he pulls off the Nanosleeve (a variation of the Nanomask the Natalia used whilst posing as a Council member) to reveal his metal arm beneath fake flesh. He fixes his fingers, no longer feeling like he’s wearing a thick glove.

He slides into the bed next to her, becoming the big spoon and laying his metal arm over her side. She loves it, for some reason, but it makes him oddly happy to know that she doesn’t mind it; most would be terrified and consider it a deal breaker. She shuffles a little, becoming aware of the new occupant, but she must know it’s him because she doesn’t jump up and slice his throat; instead, she sighs and shuffles backwards.

“Доброеутро.” she murmurs, and she rolls onto her back, the arm that was hanging off the edge of the bed comes up to rest on his cheek, but her eyes stay closed. He smiles, knowing she can feel it beneath her fingers as much as she can simply _tell_.

“Good morning,” he repeats her greeting in his own mother tongue (how did he ever forget English was his first language? It rolls off his tongue as silky-smooth as Russian off of hers), smiling lazily. She still doesn’t open her eyes, she just pulls him down for a slow, sated kiss. His hand moves from her stomach to the mattress next to her waist, so he’s propping himself above her, his metal arm easily able to take his whole weight, whilst his other hand touches her cheek. Her other hand comes up so they wrap around his neck and pull him down towards her, and she can feel his skin burning even through her tank top.

“Where’s Steve?” she asks when they finally pull away, and he laughs because even _she_ gets a bit confused when she’s just woken up, especially without her coffee. But he doesn’t have to reply for her to remember, she grins.

“Wonderful...” she says lazily, “I have you all to myself.” But she does not pull him down again, rather she sits up and leans against him; because he is James and she is Natalia and he knows what she intends to do often before she knows herself. Clint is her best friend, and she trusts him with her life, but James was and is her first everything; from friend to lover and so much more. She trusts him with her very soul.

So when she sits up, he moves to do likewise, leaning against the headboard of her bed so she can rest her own head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. He was never as good at keeping it level as she was; probably because of the insane amount of experimentation that was conducted on him, and it always gives her a rush of pride to hear it racing. But she is solemn now.

“ _What are we doing, James?_ ” she asks him, the Russian falling from her mouth so much easier than English. He looks at her,

“What do you mean, Natalia?” he asks. He speaks in the Brooklynite English of Bucky, the friend; but uses the words of James, the lover. She was surprised to see how similar Bucky was to the James she knew in the sixties, and though the differences weirded her out, this confusion lessened as he grew to become one whole; Bucky _and_ James, as opposed to two personalities separated by mind wipes – and, when that didn’t work, torture.

“This.” she answers, now in English. “What are we doing? We’re not the same people we once were...”

“I would disagree on that one, little spider.” He smiles down, and she smiles back at him. _Little spider_ is what he called her in the Red Room, his pet name for her. She hasn’t heard it in decades, but the way he says it makes it fell as though she was only hearing it yesterday. It was once diminutive, something to call a fond companion, a little girl. It's still that, in part, but it still fits her, even though she has become a dangerous and grown women since he last tasted those words on his tongue.

“What d'you mean?” she inquires, not looking at him; her head laid on his chest, but she can feel his gaze on the back of her head.

“We're the same people, I think. I'm Bucky, I'm James, I'm the Soldier. You're Natasha, you're Natalia, you're the Widow.” He pauses, “We are the same as we were then, simply in different places.” he smiles; she can tell, she can hear it in his voice, “Here we fight because it is right, we save people and fight for what we believe in. We save the world and protect it. We no longer are forced to follow through, to be slaves to a vicious empire, to be assets rather than people.” He lowers his voice, and continues in her mother tongue, “ _Here, we may lie like this without fear of punishment, of death. But we are the same people, because I love you as much now as I did back then_.”

She turns to look at him, “You loved me?” she asked, “Even when I was...that? When you were...him? You loved me?” What she means, is how could he have loved her when she was trained to kill? When only she was privy to her own emotions, after being taught to hide them so well? She had loved him as a child and as a young woman, too. But she hadn’t thought he’d loved her; not after that day, just after her eighteenth birthday, her first mission, her first time outside the Red Room, and he acted as though he didn’t know her at all.

Of course, now she knows that she had become like Steve to him; that he had been too emotionally attached to her, and he had had to be wiped to keep him compliant. And, just like when they were erasing Bucky and Steve from his mind, the wipes had not been enough, he had had to be physically conditioned via torture to forget her.

“ _Of course I loved you, Natalia_.” he replies, “ _I told you before, they wiped me, they... they conditioned me to forget you. Because I was too connected to you. I loved you_.”

“Oh...” She says quietly. She runs a hand over one scar in particular, where he told her they cut his flesh with a burning hot blade. It cauterised the wound immediately, preventing him from passing out with blood loss – or indeed, losing any blood at all – but he claimed there had been little more painful than that. This was but one of many scars that mapped his body, one of many that was proof of how much she meant to him; because the mind wipes had just not been enough. Which was why she could not believe he’d loved her after that; after her existence around him had basically resulted in this torture. But then again, she had not been the only one to taste freedom. Those nights in her final year of training, when they told her exactly how to get a man to do what she wanted, and had James perfect this art. They had not done as the KGB had asked because they were asked, but because they, the two of them, had wanted one another. But she'd never realised he had actually _loved_ her.

She doesn't need to say anything, he knows exactly what runs through her head as she mulls this over, and he smiles when she finally looks up at him, because she’s smiling, too.

“It’s times like this when I don’t feel so bad.” She tells him, and he knows exactly what she means. What she’s done both under the KGB’s order and her own accord, are things she would rather forget, but they make her who she is. There are dark memories in his mind, too, but they have made him who he is as well; they were necessary for the two of them to be where they are now, safe (ish) and happy and finally doing something that doesn’t require they drown their consciences. The Avengers helps. Its how she atones, and how she manages to face herself in the mirror every morning. She might not be a proper hero, not quite yet, but how bad can she be if she works alongside Hawkeye? Alongside Captain America and Thor?

“ _I would hope not_.” He jests, “ _I would take it as a slight if you said my presence ‘made you feel bad’_.” She laughs and shakes her head, but pulls him down for another kiss. She’s half laying on top of him like this, both her legs on one side, but she moves so that she’s straddling him under the covers. The kiss is deeper this time, not just because of their talk but because she is more awake now, and surer of both herself and him. She kisses him for fiercely and he eagerly returns it, because he is the charismatic Bucky who secretly fears the Widow as much as he is James who adores his Natalia. Her hands run through his hair – which, by this point, he has cut so he looks more like Bucky from the pictures, and Natasha has to admit that _damn_ he looks good, and she can see why Bucky was so popular with the ladies.

His hands are sure and chaste (ish) on her hips, over the soft cotton of her boxers. He pulls away to comment,

“Why are you wearing these?”

She grins down at him, “You know why,” she smiles, then adds, “They’re comfortable.” They both know that’s as true as it is false; something about Natalia and boxers makes his mouth go dry and the blood rush from his head. He looks at them. They’re still the dark blue ones decorated with shields. The Captain America ones.

“If you say so.” He flashes a cocky half-smile, “Now that I'm an Avenger, they’ll make Winter Soldier ones.” He grins up at her, and she smirks.

“I’m sure you’d love that,” she says dryly, “Me wearing _Winter Soldier_ underwear.” His gaze becomes a little distant and his eyes glaze over slightly, clearly imaging it. He swallows, and she laughs a little.

“Maybe they’ll make ones for everyone,” she continues, “Vision, Iron Patriot – maybe even Scarlet Witch.”

“I still think Winter Soldier would be my favourite.” he says, and she rolls her eyes,

“You have a bigger ego than Stark.” she tells him, and he raises his eyebrows.

“Ha, how dare you.” He says mildly, “I'm wounded, Natalia.” He grins, then pouts and gives her big puppy dog eyes, and she curses under her breath because he knows _exactly_ how cute he looks and _exactly_ how much that look turns her on. But she more or less (definitely less) keeps her cool.

“You’d like that though, wouldn’t you?” She continues, “Winter Soldier boxers. Or maybe panties, and a matching bra.” She grins, and he frowns nervously before swallowing again.

“ _Now that’s just cruel._ ” He says, but it could be worse. They could be in a crowded room, or a SHIELD conference room, or on a highly secretive mission. But here, in her bedroom, there is nothing but his (rapidly waning) self-control stopping him - stopping them. He also knows that this is just how Natalia likes it. She doesn’t do fair, it makes her smile and smirk when she’s got the upper hand. But he knows she loves it even more when he takes that away from her.

Suddenly he flips so that she’s on the bottom, and he’s pinning her with his knees on either side of her hips, and she’s squirming for the sake of squirming, and they both know that if she has a _real_ problem, there are about a hundred ways she can get out of his this hold – and that’s just the non-lethal versions.

“Those _are_ men’s boxers, you know.” he tells her with a grin, “How d’you think I’d look if _I_ wore those Black Widow ones? Or the soon to be very popular Winter Soldier?”

She laughs up at him, but they both know she’s imagining just that, and she likes what she sees. _Very_ much.

“Well, why don’t we find out?” she asks him, and jerks her chin over to her chest of drawers, “Top drawer on the left.”

He grins down at her, “Well, as much as I like the idea of taking my clothes off, I really don’t see the point of putting them straight back on.” He flashes her that cocky half-smile that she’s seen in a dozen of Steve’s old photos, and she’ll be damned if that doesn’t turn her on like a lightbulb. His hands had been either side of her shoulders as he straddled her, but now he moves to trail his metal fingers down her side. She shivers, half from the cold and half not. It amuses him how she seems to have a slight fetish for his arm, but he also loves it.

He never would have been able to accept this limb as part of himself if Natalia hadn’t, and he’d probably still be denying its existence. Ever since he got his memories back, he remembered everything HYDRA and the KGB did to him, but it was his choice. He refused to lose Steve from the 40’s and he refused to lose Natalia. The memories shocked him at first but he learned to deal with them. And what comes to mind now is those first few weeks where he was exclusively right handed. Not just _he wrote with his right hand_ – because he’d been naturally right-handed his whole life – but he refused t to _anything_ with his left. The KGB had tolerated this for exactly a fortnight, then they began punishing him for his ungratefulness towards “his wonderful new gift”. He still had the scars on his right shoulder in case he forgot. The only time he considers his arm a gift is when he is with Natalia. He was given some neurological sensors in this arm; some form of touch, and though he cannot feel pain, he can feel her with his left hand; the cotton of the boxers and the silk of her skin; pressure and warmth. The metallic fingers ghost over the apex of her thighs and she gasps, then whines, keening. 

She completes him and he completes her. They are the reminders of each other’s pain, but also the examples of freedom. They freed each other from the KGB and their blood Red Room, and they are as much the reminders of the torture as well as the _reasons_ ; that they would and _have_ gone through anything for those they love; for Natalia and James and Steve and Clint. And each time they fall apart together, it's another reminder of how far they’ve come since they first met, how they're spying on and killing the bad guys, now, not fulfilling contracts, how they are slaves to no one, they can make their own decisions, and they have each other to thank as much as themselves for that gift; that freedom.

Which is why they are both very partial to long morning lie-ins.


End file.
